Riddle in the Dark
by LeeASherlook
Summary: Revisiting the concept of boggarts in Snape's Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, Harry was wholly prepared to face the faux dementor. But what stepped out of that darkened space was something else entirely. A handsome boy with a gleaming prefect's badge and a cruel smile.


Riddle in the Dark

The old wardrobe door creaked open, slowly, swinging on its hinges before halting, revealing the dark space within.

Harry gripped his wand tighter, the wood pinched between his fingers, anticipating the rattling breath and wispy cloak ends of the pretender Dementor he knew would emerge at any moment. Revisiting boggarts in his sixth year under Snape's snide nose was not his idea of an enjoyable Defence lesson, but at least he knew how to handle this. Even the Slytherin professor couldn't fault his proficiency here.

But why was the boggart taking so long? He glanced either side of him, wondering if any students were standing too close, confusing it. But no, he was alone at the front of the line while Snape stood off to the side, his arms folded, expression unimpressed – almost as if Harry was intentionally making him wait for a dramatic touch. Pulling his green eyes back to the wardrobe, Harry finally saw something move within and a dripping sound followed.

Eyebrows knitting together, he looked down at the dark liquid that was now dribbling from the base of the wardrobe onto the polished floor of the classroom. His heart thumped in his chest for a moment, thinking it was blood. But no, it was much too dark and far too thin.

It almost looked like… ink.

Blinking, Harry stood up a little straighter, looking back to Hermione and Ron with a questioning frown. Ron offered him a shrug, but his face was clearly growing nervous at the silence in the room. None of the students were talking. Not even a whisper. Slytherin and Gryffindor alike, it was as if they were all waiting for something.

Hermione's expression worried Harry the most though. Her soft features were usually brimming with understanding, but this time she looked concerned, glancing over to Snape as if waiting for him to step in.

"Sir?" she finally said, hesitantly. "Isn't this a little unusu-"

Snape held up an impatient hand.

"Always the exception, aren't we, Potter?"

But the silk that usually laced his voice when he was insulting Harry wasn't there.

The ex-potion's professor moved to take a step forward, annoyance now flickering across his eyes. But he stopped short, retreating, finally satisfied as the boggart emerged from the wardrobe at last.

Harry sighed, almost in relief. At least now he could get this over with.

But what exited the darkness wasn't a dementor. It wasn't even close.

Careful, even footsteps sounded in the room, echoing from perfectly shined shoes clacking on the wood. A neat Slytherin tie – though not the same design that the Slytherins behind Harry currently wore – and impeccable Hogwarts robes followed, dressing the figure of a handsome boy with shining hair and a tidy prefect's badge.

The figure was smirking softly, now at a standstill, intelligent eyes firmly fixed on his target.

"What on earth, Potter?" Someone called from behind him.

Harry didn't know who had spoken. He couldn't bring himself to look away. A thousand thoughts rushed through his head, but they all converged in absolute horror and confusion. Why? Why was he staring at sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle's face?

Riddle's mouth twisted even more, watching Harry's paling expression with an undisguised hunger.

He took a step. Harry took one back, noting the shaky wand in his hand.

"I did say we looked somewhat alike, didn't I, Potter? Now more than ever, it would seem."

The voice that had echoed through the Chamber of Secrets, mercilessly ordering a basilisk to murder him, shot through Harry like a bullet and he snapped out of his stupor, steadying his hand, spell on the tip of his tongue. He didn't understand why the boggart had abandoned the dementor and chosen Tom Riddle's face to wear as a mask, but it was still only a boggart.

Right?

"You're not him," Harry said firmly. These words drew Severus Snape's calculating eye, his dark orbs glancing back and forth between the boys, not quite understanding, but quietly intrigued.

"Not who?" came a snide, but painfully curious, voice from the back. Malfoy.

Harry started slightly, aware once more that they had an audience.

"Am I not?" Riddle said softly, smirk falling away as the Gryffindor stepped forward, face intent to strike.

It was then that Harry noted the footsteps that marked the boy's path from the wardrobe. Inky black – just like the river of liquid that had bled from the diary, all those years ago.

He couldn't say why, but the sight made him lose focus, flashes of Ginny's lifeless body invading his mind, a phantom pain from the fang buried deep in his arm causing him to wince, wand lowering to grasp the uninjured appendage.

"Potter!"

Snape's sharp voice helped pull him back slightly and he looked sideways at the professor.

"Are you waiting for an invitation?" Snape jerked his head toward Riddle, whose eyes hadn't left Harry for one moment.

Right. Yes, all he needed to do was to cast Riddikulus. Riddikulus… Rid-Riddle.

"Come now Harry, why the hesitation?"

Harry shot the smug boy a look, shaking his arm as if he could banish the ghosting pain.

"My, my, look at that glower. We really are alike."

"I'm nothing like you!" Harry spat, venomous, lost in the confrontation, feeling the hammering of his heart grow.

The laugh that followed was cold. Not quite what it would become, but close. Harry saw Snape start slightly from the corner of his eye, as if the man subconsciously recognised something of his future master in that awful sound.

"We both know that's just not true. Why else would I be here?"

"I don't-"

Riddle smiled, widely. It didn't suit him.

He stepped closer.

"You haven't wondered why you're seeing me? Of all the forms of myself I could have taken, this is the one you fear the most. Why do you think that is?"

Harry shook his head.

"You see the similarities yourself. I am the evidence of what you yourself could become. One slip, Harry. You've almost done it before. The promise of parents, the enticement of family, the desire to punish those who have taken something from you…"

Harry's face was white as a sheet, images of Voldemort sticking through the back of Quirrell's turban and Bellatrix falling from a weak cruciatus incantation flickering before his eyes.

"Not to mention the parallels of our past. Great lineage, orphans, disappointing muggle interference. It's all there."

Riddle had moved closer now, but Harry couldn't bring his lips to move, to say the simple spell that would banish the ghostly figure for good. Someone was shouting at him, but he couldn't take his eyes off the boy in front of him, reluctantly absorbing the perfect presentation; the features not unlike his own, only with an unfamiliar, cruel smile playing around the lips; poisonous promises waiting to fall from them.

Riddle reached out, eyes alert, a flicker of red just about visible in them, and he grabbed the wrist of Harry's wand arm with vicious strength, twisting it and forcing the wand from useless fingers, letting it clatter to the ground.

"You're mine, Harry Potter."

Harry couldn't breathe, the pain in his arm was becoming excruciating, beginning to ring in his scar. He was losing sight of everything around him, dizzy and about to drop when the room shot clear for a moment and the figure of Tom Riddle was banished back to the wardrobe with a spell fired from behind Harry's shoulder.

Blinking back to reality, he steadied himself, noting his wand on the ground, lying in a puddle of ink that was starting to stain the wood.

He bent down and snatched it up quickly.

Turning around, he sought out the spellcaster and saw Ron's wand still raised, face now determined, grimly aware of the significance of the figure he had just vanquished.

The classroom was so quiet.

"What was _that_, Potter?"

Snape's quiet words drew Harry's immediate attention and dread formed in his stomach, looking over at his professor. The man didn't look angry, he seemed… wary. His fingers were tight around his wand, and his stance seemed on edge, teeth clenched.

Harry didn't – couldn't – answer.

"That was a student!" Some unhelpful Slytherin offered. "Why is Potter afraid of a student?"

This would have been the perfect time for jeers and laughter at Harry's expense, but no one moved or made a sound. Something about that figure had drawn a hush over the room. Student or not.

"Harry, you're bleeding!"

Hermione's panic drew everyone's attention and the boy-who-lived looked down at his arm in panic, searching for the long-healed puncture wound.

But there was nothing there. He looked up at Hermione in confusion, a question on his lips. But when he saw that all twenty or so faces were set in alarm, gazes firmly fixed on a spot above his brow, Harry knew. Raising a shaky hand to his scar, he felt something warm and sticky, pulling his fingers down to see scarlet red coating them.

Despite the collection of students watching him, Harry couldn't help but turn to the dark eyes of his professor, taken aback by the drawn and reluctant expression he saw there.

"Professor, he needs to see Madame Pomphrey."

Hermione was the voice of reason, as always. But there was a notable pause in which Snape continued to stare, finally relenting and standing tall once more, gesturing to the door, silently ordering Hermione to accompany Harry. She came forward and took his arm.

But he could feel those shrewd eyes on him with every step, until he was beyond the threshold of the door, he himself resisting looking back toward the boggart-infested wardrobe, worry blossoming in his chest and that cruel smile still playing out in his mind's eye.

_End_


End file.
